


Not Ashamed

by Lynnwood



Series: Adoribull Drabbles [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Somewhat established relationship, angsty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynnwood/pseuds/Lynnwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For someone so flamboyant and dramatic, Dorian is very withdrawn when it comes to romantic relationships and other personal matters. Through past pain or natural preference, he shies away from public displays of affection. It never occurs to him what others might take away from that behavior, until it's rather rudely brought to his attention. How will he handle the knowledge that some apparently think he's ashamed of Iron Bull and what they have together? How will he go about fixing it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Ashamed

**Author's Note:**

> Another short little Adoribull drabble. I've had the overall idea for this for quite some time now but it took me a while to figure out exactly how I wanted to go about telling it. Not entirely sure if I hit the mark or not, but here it be regardless. Hope you enjoy it! There's a little bit of altered game dialogue between Dorian and Vivienne at the beginning, credit for that where it's due.

It was uncommonly warm in Skyhold, enough so that after only a few minutes of training Dorian had been forced to shed most of his robes or risk heat stroke. He’d stripped down to his boots and leather breeches, though as he was currently tucked away in one of the secluded alcoves off the garden, the mage wasn’t terribly concerned about modesty. Not that anyone who caught a glimpse wouldn’t undoubtedly enjoy the view. It was such a spectacular view, after all. All smooth, coffee-colored skin pulled taut over perfectly toned muscle, glistening now with a sheen of sweat under the afternoon sun born from his exertions.

Those exertions were battle forms, memorized and perfected long ago, though only a fool would stop practicing them entirely. Muscles would atrophy without constant use; magic skill was no different. Thus—even though Corypheus and most of his Venatori and Red Templar lackeys had been defeated months past—Dorian continued his weekly training regimen. The Tevinter mage was deadly poetry in motion now as he moved, his staff a whirling blur in his sure hands, face a mask of steely determination. The stone walls around him were scorched here or there with the mark of weakened spells cast in rapid succession. A bolt of violet energy suddenly snaked from his arm and struck the wall with a snapping hiss, the Lightning Bolt spell hitting its mark flawlessly.

Dorian’s steps faltered when the sound of someone clapping drew him up short. He turned toward the sound, bracing his weight on the staff now firmly planted on the ground at his feet, and found perhaps the very last person he expected to be watching him.

Madam Vivienne de Fer continued to clap for a moment, her expression pulled into a tiny smile that could be genuinely pleased or merely condescending. Perhaps both. With Vivienne it was almost impossible to tell. Either way Dorian shot her an answering half-grin and bent at the waist in a flippant bow.

“Quite impressive, Dorian,” she purred, straightening from where she had leaned one hip against a nearby pillar and began approaching now that it was safe to do so.

Only a fool got near a mage while practicing. Vivienne was many things, fool was not among them.

“Impressive for a heathen Tevinter noble, you mean,” Dorian returned dryly, eyebrow quirked. Vivienne’s smirk turned into a moue.

“Your words, darling.” That caused Dorian to snort a little, genuinely amused at how she’d turned that back on him. He and Vivienne weren’t exactly friends. After all he was an Altus of the Tevinter Imperium and she was an Imperial Enchanter of the Orlesian Court; they both felt they were superior to the other by sheer circumstance of birth. The two mages had formed somewhat of a bond however, forged over the long months of living and fighting together. They both shared a love of fashion and fine wine and an equal disgust for Skyhold’s distinct lack of either.

“To what do I owe the esteemed pleasure of your visit, Madam?” Dorian murmured after a moment and Vivienne sighed.

“I received a letter the other day, Dorian.”

“Truly?” he interrupted dryly, unable to help himself. “It’s nice to know you have friends.” A quirk of the dark-skinned woman’s imperious brow was all she would dignify that with, before continuing as if he hadn’t spoken.

“It was from an acquaintance from Tevinter expressing his shock at the rumors of your . . . relationship with the Iron Bull.”

Dorian floundered at that for a moment, blinking. The very first thing that sprung to mind, however random, was shock that Vivienne had any sort of ‘acquaintance’ from his homeland that she would willingly correspond with. The second was far more profound disbelief that word of his . . . ‘affair’ with Bull had traveled so far. It was no well-guarded secret around Skyhold, that much was true, but . . . And naturally, on the tail end of _that_ thought was the wonder if his parents had heard about it as well. And if they had? How did that make him feel exactly? Terrified? Relieved? Indifferent?

Dorian found he couldn’t exactly tell, and that in and of itself was altogether unsettling. The Tevinter mage stiffened now under Vivienne’s discerning gaze though, expression shuttering. Pulling up old defenses and armoring himself almost lovingly with them.

“Rumors you were only too happy to verify, I assume,” he bit out, tone gone brittle with forced politeness.

Vivienne didn’t respond right away, merely loped closer and suddenly reached out. Dorian flinched, not expecting the maneuver, and could only watch somewhat dumbly as the woman delicately picked up the amulet he wore around his neck. It was the very tip of a dragon’s tooth, smoothed and polished until it resembled ivory. It was capped in glittering obsidian—the edges carved into the shapes of writhing serpents that curled and coiled around the base—and hung from a brilliant silverite chain. A truly beautiful piece, one Dagna had outdone herself designing. Vivienne regarded it in her fingers for a moment, expression unreadable, before letting it gently fall back against his chest.

“I informed him that the only disturbing thing in evidence was his penmanship.”

Now he was _completely_ stunned. Dorian could only stare at her, blinking somewhat stupidly. “. . . oh,” he finally managed. Not his greatest conversational achievement, to be sure. “Thank you,” the Tevinter finally managed, suddenly feeling rather humbled. To her credit, Vivienne didn’t rub it in any farther than she had to.

“I am not so quick to judge, darling,” she murmured. “See that you give me no reason to feel otherwise.” The last was delivered with just a hint of steel beneath the tone and a long, lingering stare before she turned on her heel and sauntered away. Dorian was left staring after her for several minutes, still not entirely sure what had just transpired.

It wasn’t until nearly an hour later—now freshly scrubbed and dressed in clean clothes—that Dorian thought he might have somewhat of an answer to the riddle.

Iron Bull was very, _very_ humbled around Vivienne. He was a veritable chorus of ‘yes ma’am’s’ and ‘no ma’am’s’ and happily fulfilled her every whim and request without question. A bit of a knee-jerk reaction, the mercenary had grumbled somewhat grudgingly in way of explanation, because her demeanor and tendency to wear elaborate horned headdresses made him think of her in the role of a Tamassran. A mother figure of sorts. Dorian sat at his vanity dresser now, regarding his reflection with a faintly stunned, almost amused expression. Somehow it seemed that that unexpected dynamic was not as one-sided as he’d first assumed.

Because damn him if that whole encounter didn’t suddenly smack of a protective parent laying out a subtle threat of ‘hurt my baby and I’ll make you regret it.’ Dorian grinned, wondering how Bull would feel about the Lady of Iron defending his ‘honor.’

Evening was fast approaching and there was only one place the mercenary captain would be at this hour. Dorian made quick work of neatening his appearance through years and years of experience. His inky hair was soon smoothed down and styled in a dashing sweep, his mustache given the perfect hint of a curl. His eyes were lined in kohl, making the whiskey-colored orbs stand out all the more against his olive skin and given just the right amount of a sexy bedroom look. And the final touch; a small bit of blood red shimmerdust across his eyelids and up to the corner of his brow. A tiny dramatic flair to match the color of the high-necked robe that framed his angular jaw.

Assured that his visage was dashing perfection incarnate, Dorian finally stood and exited his rooms with a flourish. He made his way toward Herald’s Rest Tavern instead.

The atmosphere inside was as boisterous as usual, at least when the Chargers were in residence—which they very much were. A good half of the bottom floor was filled with the mercenary company, laughing and talking—sometimes singing—amongst themselves. Several of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle could frequently be found among them as well and tonight looked to be no different. Sera was standing on one table, regaling a riveted audience about one of her many conquests, among them Blackwall, Stitches, Skinner and Rocky. Something to do with elbows . . . Dorian quickly shifted his attention. The less he knew about _that_ , the better. It looked like Varric was deeply embroiled into a game of Wicked Grace with Dalish and Krem.

And holding court in the center of it all was their illustrious leader, the Iron Bull. The qunari somehow managed to keep tabs on everything going on around him; laughing at Sera’s antics, teasing Dalish about another lost hand, taking a long pull from the tankard in front of him and still somehow catching sight of Dorian as soon as the mage swept into the tavern.

Bull didn’t call out or make a scene—he knew Dorian was uncomfortable with such public displays of affection. The only indication he gave was a small, pleased sort of smile and an undeniable heat bleeding into his steel-gray eye, locking gazes with the suddenly breathless mage for a heartbeat or two before turning back to something one of the Chargers had said. His affection was a vibrant and easy thing, he wore it as plain as the matching amulet around his own thick neck. Bull’s was much larger than his own of course, having taken the lion’s share of the dragon tooth they’d split. When Dorian questioned that he’d laughed. They only needed to split the tooth, he’d said, it didn’t necessarily have to be an _even_ split.

“Any bigger of a piece and it’d probably break your delicate little neck.”

That statement had spurred Dorian into trying to prove to the man just how _not_ delicate he could be. He’d somehow ended the night trussed up in silk scarves, a sweaty, mewling wreck and he’d thoroughly enjoyed every second of being proven wrong.

Warmed by the memory Dorian grinned a little as he made his way to the bar.

“A mug of your finest, Cabot, my good man,” he called. The bland-faced dwarf’s expression didn’t change as he poured out a tankard of the usual ale he always served. Dorian just sighed dramatically at that and shook his head. “You and the Ferelden piss you serve will be the death of me, one day.”

“Don’t like it, don’t buy it,” the sour barkeep barked matter-of-factly before thunking the tankard on the countertop. “Three copper.”

“Poisoning _and_ highway robbery,” Dorian quipped, but put the coins on the counter nonetheless. The whole exchange was practically rehearsed by now, after all. The dwarf just grunted his response, pocketing the money and turning away to the next customer. Dorian fetched his mug and then made his way over to Bull and the others.

“Ah, Sparkler!” Varric called in greeting as soon as he neared. “I was wondering when you were gonna grace us with your presence this evening.” Dorian smirked, taking the empty chair beside Bull’s regular seat with a flourish that could almost be considered regal. The mage sat back with a happy sigh, crossing his legs and taking his first pull of the beer he’d never admit—short of torture and threat of death—that he’d actually come to enjoy. “Care to join our little game?” Varric offered, motioning to the cards with a broad sweep of his arm. “Maybe let me win back some of the coin you stole last week?”

“Hm-m, no,” Dorian demurred, “I rather enjoy the thought of you being in my debt, Varric. I think I’ll soak it in a while longer.”

“You’re a cruel man, Sparkler,” Varric chuckled.

“Haven’t you heard, Varric,” Krem suddenly piped up, eyes still trained on his hand of cards. “They teach cruelty and manipulation to the Tevinter magelets right alongside their numbers and letters.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Soporati,” Dorian shot back, not missing a beat. “They teach us that sort of thing straight from the _cradle_. How else are we to crush each other’s souls and wills to live while out on play-dates together? We Tevinters are nothing if not well-armed.”

That won a chuckle all-around, even from Krem. There had been some tension at first between the two men, left-over angst from their shared homeland and all the stigmas that came with it. It wasn’t long before that was all water under the bridge, however. Cremisius Aclassi was, first and foremost, a very good friend to the Iron Bull. Once it became apparent that Dorian and his beloved Chief were a ‘thing,’ Krem decided that it was a very good ‘thing’ for both of them and thus became one of their staunchest supporters.

The conversation flowed around Dorian for a moment or two, and he was content to remain on the edge of it, a quiet spectator soaking it all in. Bull had had one of his arms slung along the back of his chair even before Dorian sat down and hadn’t moved it afterward. Therefore no one noticed and couldn’t see his thumb press into the mage’s nape, beginning to rub gentle and soothing circles up and down his neck. Catching ever-so-often on the silverite chain hidden beneath his robes and tugging on it playfully here or there.

“You look good, _kadan,”_ he murmured after another heartbeat, the large qunari’s voice a soft rumble that wasn’t likely to be overheard by many. Dorian just smirked behind the rim of his tankard, his eyes still flickering among the crowd beyond.

“I _always_ look good,” was his lofty rejoinder. That won him a soft chuckle.

“Can’t argue that.”

Dorian tried not to preen and failed quite miserably. He _was_ a handsome man. He knew that. He owned several mirrors that all told the same picturesque story. The mage had been told he was good-looking his entire life by too many people to count. And yet somehow none of the others ever had quite the same effect on him as when the Iron Bull told him he was pretty.

And he did it quite often, too.

Dorian’s attention was somewhat forcefully redirected when one of the barmaids suddenly appeared in their midst. She was rather pretty, her auburn hair twisted up into a serviceable bun on the top of her head, a buxom build with elven features that hinted at a possible mixed heritage. He thought her name was . . . Agnes? Avis?

“Ailis!” Bull called cheerily, solving the mystery. “Another round, if you would.” Her face split into a wide smile and she shot the qunari a welcoming look through her lashes as she bent to collect the empty mugs from the table. Perhaps thrusting her breasts a little _too_ obviously out of her low-scooped neckline in Dorian’s humble opinion, but then who was he to judge the proper display of a pair of breasts?

“Anything for you, Bull,” Ailis purred and Dorian almost rolled his eyes. He could more than understand an infatuation with the hulking brute, but being so obvious about it was rather obnoxious, considering he was sitting _right here_. They didn’t parade their relationship in front of the Maker and everyone else, but all of Skyhold knew that Bull and Dorian were together by now. It seemed Ailis was choosing to ignore that fact on purpose.

“I could use a refill myself, madam,” he called out then, voice a touch sharper than was probably necessary but Dorian refused to feel bad about it. The sneering look of disgust the barmaid gave him in response was almost comical. “Thank you _ever_ so much,” he continued to gush, sugary-sweet, as the woman practically snatched the mug out of his hands and spun on her heel to march away.

Dorian felt and heard Bull heave a gusty sigh beside him and grinned, unrepentant. “A former conquest, I take it?” Bull just groaned.

“Damned redheads. It’s a weakness.” Dorian had to stifle a snicker.

“I refuse to feel the least bit sorry for you.”

“You really _are_ a cruel man, _kadan.”_

The matter was all but forgotten as conversation amongst the Chargers continued, attention turning to Dalish as she told a particularly amusing story about her use of ‘archery’ against some Free Marcher bandits. Only for the debacle to return right to the forefront when Ailis returned with a tray full of mugs—one shy of the amount she was supposed to bring. She made a show of serving everyone else first, and then Dorian arched an eyebrow as the barmaid feigned shocked dismay when she at last came to him.

“So sorry, ser,” she murmured. “I seem to have forgotten your drink.”

“How shocking,” the mage muttered dryly. Beside him, Dorian felt Bull tense up.

“Shall I go and fetch you something—,”

“No-no,” he called, getting to his feet. He stared down his nose at the petty creature, flashing a winning smile. He had graduated the Circle of Vyrantium, survived years in the courts of the Tevinter Imperium. If she thought to get under his skin, she’d have to come up with something a hell of a lot better than this pathetic display. “I’ll fetch my own drink, if you don’t mind. That way I can be assured that nothing _foreign_ finds its way inside on the trip back to the table.”

Dorian savored her narrow-eyed look of fury after he’d turned around and started for the bar. The flush on her face was undoubtedly anger, though probably some of that was directed at herself for not thinking of spitting in his drink first. _Oh dear, opportunity wasted,_ he thought with an amused shake of his head.

Dorian ordered another mug of ale from Cabot and withstood the urge to turn back toward Bull for all of about a minute before he finally gave in. What he saw then caused his whole body to lock up with shock, eyes widening.

Ailis had sat in his unoccupied chair, leaning close and murmuring something to Bull. Her sultry expression left little doubt as to the nature of her words, and if that didn’t do it then surely the hand she suddenly pressed to the qunari’s abs would do the trick. Especially when the cursed thing immediately started slithering southward.

To his credit Bull looked less than amused throughout the entire exchange, and a heartbeat after she touched him he snatched her hand away with an iron grip around the woman’s wrist. The much larger man yanked her away from him and out of the chair she sat in entirely, though he himself remained seated.

“Not. Interested.” Dorian couldn’t hear Bull’s voice from this far away, especially not through the din of the tavern but he could read his lips easily enough. “Back off, Ailis.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Bull!” Ailis suddenly screeched, loud enough to catch the attention of most everyone in the bar. Causing the atmosphere to quiet considerably. Suddenly everyone was watching the unfolding tableau without _actually_ watching it. “That damned Tevinter won’t even touch you in public,” Ailis continued to seethe, “hell he barely _looks_ at you! You think he _loves_ you? He’s ashamed of you, and everyone knows it!”

Dorian gasped at that, his whole body suddenly going very cold and then very hot all in the span of a single heart-beat. Is that . . . is that what they all thought? Is that what _Bull_ thought? That he was _ashamed_ of them? Is that why Vivienne had spoken to him earlier today?

It certainly wouldn’t be a hard assumption to make, Dorian suddenly realized, feeling hollow. He _did_ shy away from public displays. He’d never known anything else, never let himself dare to hope for more than hasty, unfeeling rendezvous in darkened alcoves before Bull. And even though he and Bull had declared themselves to each other, even though they were in the closest thing a Tevinter Altus and a Qunari Ben-Hassrath would probably ever get to a real relationship, the thought of acknowledging that to the public at large was still utterly terrifying. Because of that, Dorian suddenly realized with sickening hurt, he was treating Bull exactly how he’d been treated in Tevinter. A dirty secret, a shameful aberration, something that must be hidden away at all costs.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed, fists clenched as his entire being screamed out in furious denial. He wouldn’t keep doing that to Bull. _He couldn’t._ And he was going to fix it, right fucking now.

Iron Bull had opened his mouth to respond to Ailis, and from the utterly blank look of rage on his face it was sure to be a blistering doozy, but Dorian interrupted it before he managed.

“Excuse me!” he called out, voice deceptively airy and pleasant as he started in their direction. “So sorry,” he huffed as he closed the last steps that separated them. The barmaid had whirled to him with an ugly look but Dorian could really care less about what she thought or felt. “I couldn’t help but overhear some misconceptions you and some others might have as to the nature of my relationship with the Iron Bull.”

By this point most of the patrons had given up on pretending not to watch the spectacle. Varric even had his notebook out, quill scribbling furiously. Sera had her bow out—from only the Maker knew where—and an arrow notched, scowling face still trying to decide if she wanted to plug Ailis in the face or not, it seemed. Blackwall was spectating with a glee normally reserved for talk of gryphons and jousting, eyes darting back and forth over the rim of his tankard. The only one _not_ currently riveted by the unfolding drama was Krem, who merely continued to frown down in concentration at the cards in his hand.

Bull was staring at Dorian now, gaze uncertain, but he didn’t interrupt as the mage blithely continued. “Now, I don’t normally feel the urge to go around marking my territory like a Mabari bitch in heat,” he purred, the venom in his tone matched only by the blatantly false smile on his face. “And yet, since the subtleties seems lost upon you, my dear, allow me to make my point a little more plainly.”

With no more warning than that Dorian spun on his heel and climbed right up into Bull’s lap, much to their audience’s suddenly guffawing delight. Dorian had both knees spread around the qunari’s waist, curling his arms around Bull’s neck. Bull caught him around the hips easily enough—it was practically muscle memory at this point—but his face was still guarded. Not unwilling by any stretch, but obviously concerned. This was most definitely _not_ his normal behavior after all.

“Dorian,” he started, voice soft so no one else would hear. The mage gave him a very determined look in return.

“Shut up,” he growled just as softly, “and kiss me.”

Dorian closed the scant distance between them then, and Bull didn’t disappoint.

Dorian only dully registered the raucous cheering, hooting and hollering going up around him that threatened to bring the roof of the tavern down around their ears. Most of his attention was centered on the mouth he was currently trying his damndest to devour whole. All lips, teeth and tongue; it was a fiery heat that burned as much as it soothed, teased as much as it sated. He kissed Bull like his very life depended on it; and in some small, strange way it sort of did.

_I am not ashamed!_

The large fingers around his hips had curled tight into the leather of his breeches, hinting that Bull was far from unaffected by the display. Dorian was finally forced to pull away for air a moment later, and was somewhat mollfied by the fact that he wasn’t the only one gasping for breath. Bull stared up at him, looking somewhere between desire and concern, a strange mix on anyone but the overprotective qunari warrior. Dorian didn’t look anywhere but that probing silver stare in the moments that followed.

Ailis had disappeared and most everyone turned away back to their own various entertainments, but Dorian and Bull hardly noticed. For the moment they were lost into their own world; nothing else mattered but them.

“Not that that wasn’t hot as hell,” Bull murmured after a slight hesitation, “but you really didn’t have to do that, Dorian.”

“Hm, yes, because I so often do things I don’t want to,” the mage murmured dryly, forcing a grudging smile from the other man. His brief flare of humor faded away again though, expression sobering. He curled one hand around the qunari’s jaw, the other clutching somewhat at the base of a horn. “I am not ashamed of you, _amatus,”_ he growled defiantly, expression suddenly fierce. “I will not have them believing otherwise.”

“I know,” was Bull’s simple reply. Dorian tried to swallow the lump in his throat and failed. It sounded like a weak platitude in his ears and the knowledge stung horribly.

“I _mean_ it, Bull—,”

 _“I know_ you do, Dorian,” Bull interrupted, voice still soft but firm with conviction. “I know. There’s a big, big difference between shame and discretion, _kadan.”_ His blunted claws had started rubbing those soothing circles through his leathers, the kind that never failed to turn the Tevinter mage into a useless pile of putty. “You don’t like flaunting your personal business and there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t mind,” the warrior assured gently. Then a hint of his usual demeanor returned when he growled, “just means I get to keep a secret piece of you all to myself.”

“Well,” Dorian murmured, suddenly feeling warm and fuzzy and a little bit embarrassed all at once, “perhaps not quite so secret anymore.” Bull just laughed.

“Nah. They still haven’t seen the half of it.” The heat that was suddenly directed at him out of that single silver orb could probably melt steel. Dorian’s thoughts immediately went to those silk scarves and decided Bull was most definitely correct in that frank assessment. “So,” the qunari continued, eyebrow lifted, “do you wanna get down now or . . . .”

“No, actually,” Dorian pronounced, though he did swing one of his legs over so that he was perched sideways in Bull’s lap rather than straddling him. “It’s rather comfy up here, I’ve decided. I think I’ll stay awhile.”

Bull just laughed at that, curling one arm around Dorian’s waist to hold him in place and reached for his tankard with the other. “Whatever you want, _kadan.”_

Dorian sighed happily, taking a drink from his own—which Cabot himself had appeared with a moment before without a word of warning or explanation—then settled back in the crook of Bull’s arm and rested his head on the larger man’s broad shoulder.

He was sitting on the Iron Bull’s lap in the middle of Herald’s Rest, and the world hadn’t ended. His parents probably knew he was having ‘relations’ with a qunari mercenary captain, and the world still hadn’t ended. And Dorian decided then, at some length, that he just might be okay with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully not too heavy-handed there at the end. I just love me some fluffy endings though. At any rate, hope you enjoyed the telling! Thanks so much for reading.


End file.
